But Mrs. Brooks Bladen is got up even more arty than Hubby. Maybe it wa'n't sugar sackin' or furniture burlap, but that's what the stuff looked like. It's gathered jaunty just under her armpits and hangs in long folds to the floor, with a thick rope of yellow silk knotted careless at one side with the tassels danglin' below her knee, while around her head is a band of tinsel decoration that might have been pinched off from a Christmas tree. She's a tall, willowy young woman, who waves her bare arms around vivacious when she talks and has lots of sparkle to her eyes.
"You dear child!" is her greetin' to Marjorie. "So sweet of you to attempt all those dreadful stairs! No, don't try to talk yet. We understand, don't we, Brooks? Nice you're not sensitive about it, too."
I caught the glare Marjorie shoots over, and for a minute I figured how the picture buyin' deal had been queered at the start; but the next thing I knew Brooks boy is holdin' Marjorie's hand and beamin' gentle on her, and she is showin' all her dimples once more. Say, they're worth watchin', some of these fluff encounters.
My act? Ah, say, most of that good dope is all wasted. Nobody seems excited over the fact that I've arrived, even Brooks Bladen. As a salesman he ain't a great success, I judge. Don't tout up his stuff any, or try to shove off any seconds or shopworn pieces. He just tells me to look around, and half apologizes for his line in advance.
Well, for real hand-painted stuff it was kind of tame. None of this snowy-mountain-peak or mirror-lake business, such as you see in the department stores. It's just North River scenes; some clear, some smoky, some lookin' up, some lookin' down, and some just across. In one he'd done a Port Lee ferryboat pretty fair; but there's another that strikes me harder. It shows a curve in the drive, with one of them green motor busses goin' by, the top loaded, and off in the background to one side the Palisades loomin' up against a fair-weather sunset, while in the middle you can see clear up to Yonkers. Honest, it's almost as good as some of them things on the insurance calendars, and I'm standin' gawpin' at it when Brooks Bladen and Marjorie drifts along.
"Well?" says he, sort of inquirin'.
"That must be one of the Albany night boats goin' up," says I. "She'll be turnin' her lights on pretty quick. And it's goin' to be a corkin' evenin' for a river trip. You can tell that by——"
But just here Marjorie gives me a jab with her elbow.
"Ow, yes!" says I, rememberin' my lines. "Um-m-m-m-m! Fine feelin'. Very darin' too, very! And when it comes to the tech stuff—why, it's there in clusters. Much obliged—er—that is, I guess you can send this one. Mr. Robert Ellins. That's right. Charge and send."
Maybe he wasn't used to makin' such quick sales; for he stares at me sort of puzzled, and when I turns to Marjorie she's all pinked up like a strawberry sundae and is smotherin' a giggle with her mesh purse. I don't know why, either. Strikes me I'd put it over kind of smooth; but as there seems to be a slip somewhere it's me for the rapid back-away.